From Within
by Dwells in Shadow
Summary: A series of short pieces that will eventually, I hope, tie loosely together into one story.


The sidewalk was a Pollock piece in blood splatter and dislodged teeth, flickering in and out of sight as the street lamp guttered. An unconscious man with three day stubble and greasy hair was slumped against the lamp pole. His arms were wrapped around it in a flaccid hug, wrists bound together. He would have two black eyes, possibly a concussion, and would need to eat all his food pureed for the next six months at least. There was no need to leave a calling card, the blood had pooled into a rather interesting blot all on its own.

Stalking in and out of the pools of light cast down by other street lamps, Rorschach turned the corner with a flap of his trench coat. The next street was a busy one, populated by working girls, scantily clad and waving to passing cars. He had patrolled often in this part of the city and the girls knew better than to proposition him. Shrinking behind lamp posts and into doorways, they averted their eyes from his fluid expressionlessness. His mind was so dense with ill thoughts for their kind that a few spilled from his lips in gravelly mutters as he passed. When he was well into the next block, one of the girls spat on the ground he had just tread.

"Filth," he said audibly. His skin crawled under their imagined gazes and he was glad to have moved beyond their reach. __

It's not entirely her fault, you know. A distinctly female voice suddenly sounded in his ear and he about-faced with catlike precision. He saw no one in either direction.

"Who's there?" he growled to the shadows.

_Your mother_.

"My mother's dead." __

It's not entirely your mother's fault, the seemingly disembodied voice clarified. It was so clear and yet he saw no one. Looking up, he scanned fire escapes and utility poles for the telltale shadow of a person, a woman. There were none to be found.

"Who are you?" he demanded. The razor edge of his tone promised violence. __

Yes_, __she was a prostitute__. __She was also bitter and broken and incapable of being the mother you needed__. __The mother you deserved_.

"I have no need for a shrink, especially not an invisible one." Moving with careful steps, he strained eyes and ears inside his mask for the slightest sign of life.

_What she did was wrong__. __She was fallible, just like all women and men__. It's __not entirely her fault__._

"What isn't, exactly?" Muscles tensing, he shifted his weight very carefully from foot to foot. Maintaining his balance was crucial to landing a blow at a moment's notice. The skin on his back was crawling again, under a gaze he was positive he was really feeling. __

Your repulsion.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up despite both his mask and the collar of his coat warding off the chill. He spun on his heel, coming face to face with a frail woman with wild hair and wilder eyes. He seized her by the shoulders and shouted "what do you want?" into into her face. She shrieked in response, knees buckling. He let her fall. She knelt there on the concrete, staring up at him, and breathing hard.

"Oh my god..." The wrong voice came out of her mouth. She reached out as if to touch his mask and he recoiled. She climbed unsteadily to her feet and made for his mask again. He slapped her hand away. "Burning..." she whispered, "so many bodies burning."

"What?" he snapped in disgust, taking another step away from the woman. The design on his mask shifted which elicited a gasp from his pursuer, after which she seemed struck dumb. He stood still for many, long moments anticipating another grasp for his face or possibly something worse. She held out her arm, pointing at about where is nose was.

"Puppy!" she announced with childlike glee then turned and went away down the street.

Rorschach stood in silent confusion for another moment before growling, "junkie." His stomach rumbled, almost startling him after his strange encounter. He crossed the street and headed east.

Climbing the three steps onto the porch, he looked around him before finding his balance on one foot to deliver the necessary blow. Just as he launched the kick, the door swung open, and he fell loudly to the floor just past the threshold. Back on his feet almost instantly despite the shock and sharp pain of the landing, he spun around to find the homeowner standing, half-concealed behind the open door.

"You don't kick in for new locks, so I would sincerely appreciate it if you'd stop doing that." Daniel pushed the door shut and refastened the locks. By the time he turned around, Rorschach had disappeared. Daniel walked into the kitchen and found his partner rooting around in a cupboard.

"No beans," Rorschach stated after a fruitless search. Though the two words held no tone, merely the the tenseness of his posture beneath the trench coat provided all the incredulousness Daniel had earned.

"No beans," Daniel echoed, raising an eyebrow when Rorschach headed for the door without so much as closing the displeasing cupboard. "Are you hungry?" he asked the retreating trench coat. Rorschach made no answer, his stomach provided one for him. Daniel nodded. "Sit down." As Daniel went to the fridge, he let the silence linger until it was broken by the telltale squeak of chair legs. "There is actually a variety of foods available, I think you'd be amazed."

"I like beans."

"Yes, unfortunately the feeling is not mutual." Daniel carried an armload of something he purposely kept out of the other man's view to the counter. Puttering around, the sounds of cupboards and drawers and then the chop chop chop of a knife kept the silence at bay. Returning what was unused to the refrigerator, Daniel set a bowl down in front of Rorschach, the contents of which were a colorful palette of green, red, and orange. Forks were set out and three flavors of dressing. Daniel wasn't expecting the other man to use any.

"Vegetarian faggotry," Rorschach growled threateningly at his salad.

"They're just vegetables," Daniel insisted as he took a seat across from the other man. Selecting the balsamic vinaigrette for himself, he drizzled it carefully over his salad. "I promise it's not secret, Communist produce that will switch your orientation." _Give you one, more like_, Daniel added in his head. He speared lettuce, cucumber, and tomato in one stab and slipped the vegetables off the tines with his teeth. He kept his eyes on his own food, waiting. His patience paid off. He heard the soft clinking of a fork hitting the bottom of a glass bowl. Daniel quelled his smile with another bite of salad.


End file.
